Meg Driscoll glanced wearily out her window; pines swayed as the car swept along the highway. Her head turned slightly, allowing her view to encompass her sleeping brother, Joe (her fellow back-seat prisoner). She replaced her headphones over her ears, preparing for yet another repetition of the classical CD she had managed to grab on her way out the door. She heaved a sigh. Her mother, Judith, was taking them on a trip into the North Georgia Mountains. For Meg’s part, any place more than thirty miles away from Atlanta that did not boast a large city or historical landmark was of no importance whatsoever. By sending them on this “vacation,” Judith had condemned her daughter to a slow death of boredom. Comforted by the thought that Joe would be as bored as she, Meg settled into her seat and proceeded to sleep fitfully.
The car shook as it shifted footing from stable pavement to loosely-packed gravel, inclining as it began a steep ascent. The road was barely wide enough for one car, let alone any that might be traveling in the opposite direction, but it appeared so long neglected that the very idea of anyone attempting the climb was preposterous. The change in motion had awakened both Meg and Joe; their heavy eyes peered into the green forest surrounding both sides of the car. After an eternity of winding roads and potholes, they entered a clearing. It encircled an old Victorian estate, built many decades ago with no visible maintenance.
As the car eased into park, Meg saw her mother’s knuckles slowly regain their color. Judith was unaccustomed to curvy roads, and the experience had been unnerving. As her mother began to turn around, the group was distracted by two distinct sounds: the sound of breaking glass, followed by a robust, high-pitched yell sounding very much like “whoopee!!!” Joe smirked. His sister’s expression of alarm, coupled with the quirky way one eyebrow continually rose higher than the other, was comical, and he focused on imprinting it on his brain. His mother turned around.
“Well, here we are!” she said brightly, trying to hide the dread stealing across her face.
“Where are we, again?” Meg asked.
“We,” began Judith, “are at the Duvoua House of Pickens County!”
Her speech was interrupted yet again. The children peered around seats to see a tall, elderly man running around the side of the residence; he sported a suit, scarf, helmet, and dive-bomber airplane goggles.
“Halooooo, Judith!” he called merrily. His arms swung into the air.
“I say, HALOOOO, JUDITH!!!”
“And that,” said Judith resignedly, “is Mr. Duvoua.”
Meg and Joe looked at each other thoughtfully. Perhaps the trip could be salvaged, after all. They grabbed their bags and tumbled from the vehicle. As their doors shut, Judith rolled down her window.
“Meg, Joe!” she hissed. “Come here! Give me a kiss goodbye!”
“Don’t you want to say hello to Mr. Duvoua?” Joe asked incredulously. He couldn’t fathom passing up the chance to speak to such an interesting fellow.
“Are you insane?!” She asked, kissing them. “He’s cheerful! Maliciously cheerful! I’m sorry to run like this, but I’ve got to keep my appointment. Have a good time, and don’t worry; I’ll be back to get you Sunday night, just keep that in mind. Love you!”
Joe shrugged, turning to meet the figure approaching them. The man skidded to a halt, pulled the helmet off with one arm and his goggles with the other, and stood squinting down the road.
“Escaped me again, the rascal!” he laughed. Looking down, he noticed the children.
“Excuse my manners! Joe and Meg, what a pleasure to finally meet you! You’ll have to forgive my appearance.” He ran a hand through his mussed hair. “My flight experiments aren’t what they used to be. I had the hang of it once, long ago, but I lost it, and simply can’t get it back! Ah, well,” he said dismissively, waving his hand, “To all good things there comes an end, as someone once said. You’ll want to set those bags down. If you’ll come with me, we’ll find a place for you.” He winked and whirled around towards the house.
After their things had been deposited, Meg and Joe began the interrogation.
“Why are we here, again?” Meg asked.
“Well,” Mr. Duvoua intimated, “Your mother would say that I insisted upon your coming so that she could keep an appointment. The truth is quite different. You are here because of your lineage.”
“Lineage,” Joe said. “Right.”
“I am quite serious,” Mr. Duvoua replied. “You are probably unaware of the fact that ‘Driscoll’ is quite a special name. In Gaelic it means ‘interpreter’ or ‘messenger.’ And that’s what you’re here for: to interpret!”
Mr. Duvoua led them into an alcove that contained a large brass door. The only decoration was its knocker, a golden hand clutching a quill pen. He inserted his key into the lock and pushed it open majestically. Stepping through the gateway, they arrived in the center of a glorious “city” made of every material imaginable; parchment, glass, plastic, rubber, all were combined in the strangely magnificent place. Their host grinned at their stunned expressions.
“This is what I have named the “Land of Literature”, he explained proudly. He stepped away from them and spun around.
“Every literary idea since man first began to record his life in words or symbols were born here; it is mostly limited to books and novels now, but it includes pamphlets, movie scripts, anything you can imagine that has to do with writing. Caesar, my friend!”
He ran towards a commanding figure dressed in purple. Meg noticed that his skin was tinted toward the color as well. Having caught the person of interest, Mr. Duvoua turned his friend around and presented the face that Joe had stared at so many nights in his coin catalog; the face of Julius Caesar. Clearly pleased with his impression, he continued,
“This chap here is the essence of Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar. He is, I suppose, what you would call a walking book.” Joe shook hands with the man, then began walking around him with a scientific expression.
“But how on earth,” he muttered, “Is that possible?”
“Well, Joe,” Mr. Duvoua said, gesturing at the city, “Nothing written simply comes out of thin air. Books are born from two parts: The minds of great men and women, and dreams. This is what you might call a limbo world, where those two parts occasionally coincide at just the right time and place, and voila! The idea for a book is born. Afterward it’s up to the author to turn it into an actual story, and when that happens we end up with someone like Julius here!”
He waved at a blue, transparent-looking woman.
“See that over there? That’s a dream, and she’s going to meet someone with their mind wrapped in the air and give them one amazing story.”
“Mr. Duvoua, this is wonderful,” Meg began, “but I still don’t see how it concerns us.”
“Why, Meg,” he replied, “It’s simple! Your ancestors- the Driscolls- have a magical talent for translation. I’m here because my relatives- the Duvouas- are the watchmen of the Land. I keep the place running; I make sure dreams behave and books stay in proper form-none of that ‘abridging’ business here! But every now and then I am confronted with an unusual problem- such as now.
I’ve got this college student- Jane- who’s been listening to Celtic music as part of her intercultural studies. Day and night, singing words she doesn’t understand. Don’t get me wrong, I love it as much as anybody, but she’s listened to so much it’s stuck in her head constantly. And now it’s gone and attracted a dream, which is wonderful except for the fact that it’s speaking Gaelic- neither understands a word.”
Joe looked dubious. “And you think we can help?”
“Look, for one thing you’re interpreters by nature. For another, you’re the interpreters whose ancestors come from Ireland!”
“All right.” They shrugged. “We’ll do it.”
Meg found the dream while Joe searched for Jane’s wandering mind. Mr. Duvoua brought the quill from the doorknocker.
“You’ll need this.”
Holding the quill between them, they formed a line between Jane and the dream. In a few seconds, the golden feather blazed green. Jane’s image disappeared, while the dream wrapped itself up in hazy fog and promptly lay down to sleep.
“Is that it?” Joe asked.
“That’ll do it!” Mr. Duvoua answered cheerfully. “Jane can carry out whatever the dream wants done- the dream is cocooned. It’s similar to a butterfly’s metamorphosis; she’ll wait until her goal is finished, then emerge as the literature she was born to be!” He ended with a triumphant whoop. “Well done!”
Joe was thoughtful. “One more question: Do we have to return on Sunday?”
“Well, I suppose; I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”
Meg answered. “Because after this, Atlanta will seem so horribly boring!”
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